Five Stages of Grief: John Watson
by asmidgeofexcitement
Summary: A brief summary of John Watson's emotional journey after the unexpected events of Reichenbach. Goes through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance. Spoilers for S2 Ep3.


**Title:**** Five Stages of Grief: John Watson**

**Rating:**** T**

**Summary: A brief summary of John Watson's emotional journey after the unexpected events of Reichenbach. Goes through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance. Spoilers for S2 Ep3.**

**Warnings:**** Suicidal thoughts**

**A/N:**** Ever been bored because your wi-fi is crap thus you are without the interwebs? Write depressing things, and all your problems will be solved!**

**While I **_**do**_** ship John and Sherlock, I realize it most likely isn't canon, so all of the feelings John has here are merely platonic and **_**not**_** romantic. In the end, John is immensely attached to Sherlock, and that alone would be enough to elicit such a strong reaction from Doctor Watson. There was no need for me to add a fanciful romantic twist to this, as much as I wanted to… :P**

* * *

1. Denial:

John Watson knew there was no way that a miraculous man such as Sherlock Holmes could just simply die. He knew Sherlock wasn't a fake like all of the papers, and even the man himself, had claimed.

John had dedicated the first two weeks after Sherlock's "death" trying to figure out why his flat-mate would need to kill himself in the first place. He suspected Moriarty had something to do with it. The consulting criminal's body had been found on the roof of the building Sherlock had jumped from, but the forensics department confirmed that, due to the angle the bullet went through his head, his death had been a suicide as well.

For once, John actually envied Sherlock's skills. He knew that his friend would have been able to figure out why the victim jumped, probably from something ridiculous such as the way the blood had splattered on the pavement.

After he gave up on the "why", he focused on the "how". John knew that there had to be some way that Sherlock managed to fake his own suicide, when John himself had seen the detective's body and checked his pulse. However, no matter how hard he tried, John couldn't figure out anything. There was no evidence to prove his theory. That didn't stop him though, because John believed in him.

John believed in Sherlock Holmes…

-o-

Each morning, John insisted on pouring a second cup tea to go with his own. He would set it next to Sherlock's chair, sit in his own, and wait. Each morning, the routine was the same. After the first week, Ms. Hudson finally stepped in. John was preparing to pour hot water into the second mug when he felt a soft hand on his.

"John, don't do this to yourself. You know he's not-"

"I'll do what I want Mrs. Hudson. When Sherlock comes back, he's going to want his tea. You know how he gets," John mumbled, continuing to pour the water. He mixed in the sugar that he knew Sherlock loved, and then carried the two mugs into the sitting room.

"This needs to stop, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, pity obvious in her voice.

"Sherlock will want his tea when he gets back," was all John replied as he settled into his chair and took a long drag of his tea, closing his eyes. "I'm surprised you haven't put more faith into him."

Mrs. Hudson didn't bother him about the tea again.

* * *

2. Anger:

DI Lestrade had stopped by 221-B Baker Street a few weeks after Sherlock's death. At first, Mrs. Hudson had been against letting the Detective Inspector in, but eventually told him that John was up in the sitting room.

Greg slowly made his way up the stairs and looked into the room. John was sitting in a chair, his back to the Detective Inspector. Mrs. Hudson had explained to Lestrade that John hadn't been acting like himself lately. Greg was concerned for Doctor Watson's health.

"Hey, John…" he murmured.

John looked over his shoulder at Lestrade, his eyes red and puffy. He rubbed his hands over his face and stood up, walking over to Greg. The DI held out his hand for his friend to shake, but John didn't take it.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?" John growled.

"I just wanted to see-"

"You wanted to see if I could come and assist you on a case? Or maybe to see if, just maybe, Sherlock was finally back so that we could, oh, I don't know… Assist you on a case?" John said with a mocking tone.

"No, John! I just wanted to make sure you're alright!" Greg reached for the doctor's shoulder, trying to show some sign of genuine concern.

John backed away from Lestrade's hand. "Why wouldn't I be alright?"

Greg sighed. "I know how it feels to lose someone you care about deeply…"

John's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he glared at the other man. "You make it sound like he's actually dead."

"Because he _is_, John! Sherlock is gone and you need to accep-" Greg was cut off sharply by John's fist.

"He isn't dead!" John shouted. "Why does everyone think he's dead?"

"Because it was his body! We checked!" Greg's voice was rising as well as he felt at his cheek, thankful that there was no blood. He'd have a black eye the next day, though. "_You_ checked, John! That was, in fact, Sherlock Holmes's body."

"Yeah, we also all thought that that one body was Irene Adler's. It wasn't was it?" John shook his head and started pacing around the room, very much reminding Lestrade of Sherlock. However, John did have a point, but Greg wasn't going to admit it.

"Would you like us to run more DNA tests or something, John?" Lestrade asked, annoyance seeping into his voice. "Is that what you'd like?" His last question was meant to be rhetorical and sarcastic, but his worries over John's well-being were too strong.

"No, Greg… Don't trouble yourself." John mumbled, looking out a window.

Greg sighed and walked up to the doctor. He rest and hand on John's shoulder. "You need to let go. This isn't healthy for you. He wouldn't want you to mourn him."

John's eyes narrowed, and Greg back away, fearing another punch. "Get the hell out of our house."

Greg didn't miss that John had called in 'our' house and not 'my' house. Lestrade wasn't a psychologist, or anything close, but he knew that John was in denial, and he'd stay like that for a while.

* * *

3. Bargaining:

Dew was slowly soaking into the knees of John's trousers as he knelt in front of the marble headstone that bore his closest friend's name and nothing else. No one had mourned him but John and Mrs. Hudson. The simplicity of the tombstone made John chuckle ironically every time he saw it. It was the polar opposite of Sherlock Holmes in every way. It was ordinary. There was nothing that set it apart from the other plaques in the graveyard. Anyone who had met Sherlock would agree that the stone was a contradiction of the man.

John gripped the top of the headstone and bowed his head. "You insufferable bastard," he choked out. "I know you aren't down there, so why am I here? Maybe because I know you're hanging around here somewhere. Your ego would want to know how many people come to see you." John glanced up and looked around him. "Just me, Sherlock. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson comes, and I've heard Lestrade has stopped by a few times. I don't know about Mycroft. I assume he isn't completely heartless. I know you weren't- I mean… aren't."

John took in a shaky breath. "Oh, Sherlock…" he whispered. "Wouldn't you_ love_ to hear what I'd give to have you back?" He shook his head and laughed despite himself. "My life is shit without you. It is. I'm not going to lie. You were the one constant good thing that I had. Just tell me where you are, Sherlock. Please? I'll travel anywhere to find you again. We don't have to come back to London. We can start fresh, yeah? Change our names, even!" He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I'd give up the life I live now just to have a life with you. Is that ridiculous? You'd probably think so. Or maybe you wouldn't… Maybe you would do the same for me. I have a feeling like that's why you've done this, gone and faked your death and all. Moriarty said something, didn't he? He threatened to do something to me unless you jumped, right? Why else would you do it?"

John managed to pick himself up, but his legs wobbled slightly. He swept off his trousers and looked down at Sherlock's grave again. "I bloody miss you," he croaked out before clearing his throat and wiping at his eyes. "Stop doing this and come pick me up, already. I'm ready to go with you…"

* * *

4. Depression:

No matter how much dear old Mrs. Hudson tried, John refused to consume anything more than bread, water and his morning tea. He was thin and pale, reminding the landlady much of a ghost. John had kept himself locked up in the flat. He rarely spoke, and when he did, his voice was toneless and weak.

He stopped going to therapy, but Ms. Hudson had insisted his therapist come to Baker Street. The first time, he refused to say anything, but when Ella returned the next week, he opened up.

"I feel empty without Sherlock. It's like there is a gaping hole in my chest, and the pain doesn't stop," John whispered as he lay across the couch.

"Mrs. Hudson says you aren't eating," Ella said.

"I'm never hungry." John crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

And that's how the visits went. Each Thursday, Ella would come in, John would say something considerably emotional, and then he would shut down again.

-o-

Everything in the flat reminded him of Sherlock, yet he still refused to remove anything, and forbade Ms. Hudson from doing so either. John would sit in his chair for hours on end, simply staring at the yellow smiley face Sherlock had painted on the wall.

He would never cry in front Ms. Hudson or Ella, but when he was by himself he would weep silently. He couldn't figure out whether he was crying because he wanted Sherlock to come back already, or because he had finally realized there was no way the detective would return. That he really was… dead.

Several times, Mrs. Hudson discovered him in the bath tub with a knife.

"I swear I'm going to do it this time…" He would mumble to her. After the first time, she knew he wouldn't. The blade never came within six inches of his skin.

"Sherlock would want you to be strong. What happened to believing in him?" She asked him one night as they sat by the fire.

"I realized I've been believing in a ghost, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

5. Acceptance:

It was strange for John once he finally accepted that Sherlock wasn't coming back; that Sherlock was dead. Under no circumstances did Doctor Watson's outlook on life change. Every now and then, Mrs. Hudson would catch him holding Sherlock's violin in his lap, absently running his fingers over the strings. John had remained miserable, but now his dread was of a new breed. No longer did he fear that Sherlock was never going to return home and prove that the entire event had been a ruse. No… Now he feared the loneliness that was creeping around him, threatening to break him even more so than he already was.

On one not-so-special day, three years after what had to have been the worst day of his life, he was slowly, almost mechanically, clearing the kitchen of any evidence that Sherlock had lived in apartment 221-B. He had finally acknowledged the terrible fact that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, dead. So, one could only imagine the flurry of John Watson's emotions when he heard a voice he had finally decided he would never hear again and felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing with my things, John?"


End file.
